


that would be enough

by moonstruckfool



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Gen, Movie: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales, Post-At World's End, Pre-Dead Men Tell No Tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23960722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstruckfool/pseuds/moonstruckfool
Summary: But I'm not afraidI know who I marriedSo long as you come home at the end of the dayThat would be enough- That Would Be Enough (Hamilton, Lin-Manuel Miranda)The Turners, in the years between AWE and DMTNT
Relationships: Elizabeth Swann & Henry Turner, Elizabeth Swann/Will Turner, Henry Turner & Will Turner
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	1. Ten years (and one day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family interrupted - or fate intervenes?

She is jerked violently from sleep by an anguished yell and the sound of things clattering to the floor, and is out of bed and on her feet in an instant, groping around in the dark for her nightgown - the damned fire's gone out.

"Hen-" she begins - what is the little rascal up to at this hour? - then catches sight of a hunched, dark figure scrabbling at the floor and opens her mouth, hastily stifling the scream as she remembers. "Will!"

Her nightgown is nowhere to be found; she pulls the quilt off the bed and wraps herself in it, and rushes to his side.

"Will! What's happened?"

His breaths are ragged and uneven, his voice cracking as he speaks. "Dropped the… the flint. Can't… find." He pushes things around, sweeping his hand carelessly under the dresser and the bed, cursing frustratedly under his breath.

"Will-"

"Help me, Elizabeth!"

Alarmed by the desperation in his voice, she drops to her knees and runs her hands along the floor, feeling for the small, sharp rock.

"Got it!" She presses it quickly into his hand, which is slippery with what she hopes is merely sweat. What can all this haste be for?

He goes to the candle on the bedside table and strikes and strikes, but it will not catch. She can hear him growing more and more panicked, his breaths growing faster and irregular - is he  _ crying _ ? 

Both flint and steel slip from his hands and drop with a clunk onto the table, and he slams a fist into the wood. 

"BLAST IT TO HELL!" he roars, and she startles.

"Will, for God's sake, you'll wake Henry! What's the matter?" She grabs him by the shoulders, seized by an urge to shake him. She feels them heave with his sobs and something occurs to her. "Did you have a nightmare? It's all right, you're safe here."

"I don't - perhaps - Elizabeth, just light the damned candle! Please,” he adds, sounding so much like the small, frightened twelve-year-old Norrington’s men had pulled from the water that she picks up flint and steel and sets to work immediately. Perhaps the light will offer him some comfort. He paces the room impatiently as she fails several times (these things never happen on the first try), stopping at her shoulder to beg her to hurry.

“I am, Will, just a moment-” the wick finally catches, and a small tongue of flame leaps up. She lets out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding and picks up the candle, turning around triumphantly.

“There-” she stops short as the light falls on Will’s face. Her hand flies to her mouth.

It barely resembles a face - she can’t even make out his eyes, so encrusted is his face in… barnacles? 

Will strides over and plucks the candle from her hand, and she gasps and shudders. His hands are clawed, slimy, his fingers melded together except for the thumb, and they look remarkably like...

Crabs' claws.

The barnacles at the front of his head shift slightly as if his brow has furrowed, and his mouth, the only visible human feature, twists in a grimace. Water drips from his face as he looks down at himself, and she doesn't think it's seawater.

He trudges silently to her dressing table and looks at his face in the mirror, dropping heavily into the chair. His shoulders slump and the candle-holder threatens to slip from his grip. She catches it and takes it from him, setting it on the table, and watches as he opens his nightshirt to reveal more barnacles creeping across his chest.

"Why?" she bursts out. "Why is this happening? The curse-"

"Has not yet been broken," he says in a choked voice.

"But it's been ten years, and I was- I'm here!"

"Calypso has not seen fit to release me. Ten years at sea, one day on land… and then another ten years away and so on, I presume."

"You knew this? When-"

"I didn't, but what else could it be? I can feel it. She is calling me back." 

" _ What? _ "

"I must go, Elizabeth, I must go back to the  _ Dutchman. _ " He dissolves into sobs again, and she throws her arms around him, disregarding the repulsive hardness of the barnacles.

"You've only just come back to me! To us!"

"Henry," he says, beginning to get up. “I need to see him, say goodbye…”

"Will, you  _ can't  _ go! I need you! Henry needs you!"

"I must, Elizabeth, I must! Look at me! I am already being punished; if I stay much longer, I will become a creature of the sea, like Davy Jones!"

"Will," she breathes, and the tears come. "How can Calypso be so cruel? How can she be so cruel to us, to our son?" 

"The  _ Dutchman  _ must have a captain, Elizabeth." He disentangles himself from her and manoeuvres them both onto their feet. "I must say farewell to Henry."

She dresses quickly and follows helplessly with the candle as he rushes across the landing towards their son's room. Henry wakes quickly with a gentle shake, sitting up and blinking owlishly at his parents in the dim light. 

"Father?" he asks in a small voice, obviously frightened by Will's appearance and demeanour.

"Henry, there isn't much time to explain, and I'm so sorry that we only had a day together, but I must go."

"Where?"

"To captain my ship, lad." He kneels and enfolds the boy in a hug and sobs, trembling. Henry gazes at her over his father's shoulder, and her heart breaks as he begins to cry too, confused and terrified.

"I don't want you to go!"

"I'm sorry, Henry, I must go. I love you so, so much, you and your mother. But I must leave you." He squeezes Henry to his chest, then releases him.

"Can't I go with you?"

"No, son, where I'm bound you cannot follow."

"Mother! Can't we go with him? I want to go with Father!"

"No, sweetheart." She bites her lip to keep from sobbing and takes her son's hand. "But we can follow him to the cliffs and see him off."

The journey to the cliffs is agony, Will trying to go as fast as possible but lingering slightly so that they can keep up with him. Just yesterday they had rushed excitedly to the cliffs, Henry so eager to see his father, and now, but a day later, they run along the same path with Will, to have him ripped away from them. She wants to drop to her knees and scream and shake her fist at the heavens, to curse Calypso to the winds, but she must keep it together for both Will and Henry. Will is broken, she knows, wracked with grief and guilt and longing, and little Henry must be so bewildered and afraid. To never know your father, to wait for so long to see him, and then finally have him come back and stay for what you think will be forever, only to have him leave suddenly in such a short time… Why? she asks again. Why? Why must Calypso do this to her family? Did they not free her from her bonds? Has she no gratitude or mercy?

Will stops at the edge, looking back at his wife and son. 

“Father!” cries Henry, clinging to him. “Don’t go. Please.”

“Henry, I must. I must, all right?” He peels their son’s hands off him and steps away, closer to the edge.

“Will!” She starts towards him, wanting to embrace him one last time, to feel his warmth on her skin one more time before she loses him again, but he backs away.

“No, Elizabeth, it’ll only make this more painful.”

“Will, I love you. I always will.”

Tears stream down his face. “No. Elizabeth, you must forget me. My curse will not be broken until another captain can be found for the _ Dutchman _ , and even then it will be when I am stabbed to death through my heart. I will never be able to live with you and Henry. You must forget me, and live your lives as if I were dead. As if Jones had killed me that day.”

“I could never!”

“You have to. For all our sakes. Marry again. Find yourself a man who can walk on land, provide for you, be a father to Henry. I can never be enough for you.” 

“Will!” she cries, taken aback.

“I don’t want another father!” Henry wails. “I want you!”

“Goodbye, Elizabeth.” He turns, and, without looking back, dives off the cliff.

“FATHER!” Henry shouts, and before she can stop him, he has run to the edge and jumped off it after Will.

“HENRY!” she screams, and drops onto her stomach so she can worm towards the edge and look down.

She sees the splash as he sinks and cries out. Not both of them, she can’t lose both of them in one night! It’s all her fault, she should have known Henry would do something as wildly foolish as this - her son had followed his father around for the one day they had together and worshipped the very ground he walked on. She allows herself to wail then, shrieking at the sky and sea, sobbing for her husband and son. She closes her eyes and pants and for a split second, she almost convinces herself that this is all a bad dream, that she will wake and find Will by her side and Henry safe in his bed, but the sea roars in her ears and she opens her eyes and no, this is all real. Her husband is gone and her son dead, and she is all alone. 

Then she looks down, and right before her eyes a ship is rising from the depths, and she would recognise that figurehead anywhere. She gasps - is it possible? She heaves herself to her feet and runs, flying down the hills and slipping on the grass as she makes for the shore. By the time she reaches the water’s edge, the  _ Dutchman _ is anchored, fully surfaced, and Will is already wading ashore, Henry thrown over his shoulder.

“Is he-” she begins, fearing his answer, but he shakes his head. He sets their son down gently, and Henry coughs horribly, spluttering water, but he’s alive and that’s all that matters.

“Henry! Oh, thank God. You mustn’t ever do that again!”

Will nods. “You scared the daylights out of your mother.”

Henry, seemingly oblivious to the fright he’s given them all, beams. “Mother, I went on Father’s ship!”

“You’re very, very lucky that he hadn’t sailed away yet. You could have drowned!” She shrugs off her coat and rubs his sopping hair with it, then puts it on him. 

Will grabs his arms. “Henry, you cannot ever do that again. I won’t always be here to rescue you.”

Henry’s face crumples. “I want you to be.”

“I can’t, son. I have duties to carry out, far, far away from here. I cannot be rushing all the way over here to make sure you don’t drown.”

“Where will you go?”

“Wherever I am needed.” Will releases him and ruffles his hair. “Be a good lad, will you? Don’t go running around putting yourself in danger. Your mother needs you.”

He meets her eyes and nods stiffly, and she puts an arm around Henry as he turns away and heads back towards his ship.

“I’ll find you!” Henry cries suddenly. “Wherever you are. I’ll find you and bring you home!”

“NO.” Will faces their son again. “You mustn’t, ever. Stay and take care of your mother.”

“Henry,” she pleads. “Let Father go. He has duties to attend to.” 

Her little boy doesn’t reply, only turns his head into her stomach and bursts into tears.

Will looks at the both of them once more, eyes full of wistfulness and grief, and walks away.

Henry’s much too big to be carried, and her back protests painfully, but she picks him up like he’s a toddler and not nine summers old and makes the long journey home as he buries his head in her neck and sobs, finally falling asleep on her shoulder.

She wakes him gently when they get back to the lighthouse and strips him of his wet clothes, changing him into new, dry ones. She settles him into bed and hums lullabies for the minute it takes him to fall back asleep, then strokes his hair tenderly. He’s alive, safe and whole.

Only then does she allow the tears to fall again, and she weeps and weeps, crying for her husband and for her son, and most of all for herself.


	2. Twenty years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all?

She’s written to him, pages upon pages, stuffed as many as she could in every watertight container she could find and thrown them into the sea, hoping against hope that he will find them and read them and listen to her.

Sometimes there are normal, even lively letters where she recounts amusing things that Henry's done - _Will, he's somehow found 'Wanted' posters of Jack and tacked them up in his room, whatever shall I do?_ \- hoping that it doesn't sound like gloating, rubbing what he can never have in his face. (She doesn’t tell him that Henry’s also put up a large piece of paper on which he is tallying every day of the curse.) Sometimes she allows her sadness to leak into her writing a little - _Henry's twelve today. Will, he's so big now. I wish you were here to see him._ And sometimes she cannot hold back her grief and anger, and she knows she's wasting good paper, but she writes the same thing over and over - _Will, I love you, I love you. I could never forget you. I love you, I love you so much. Please come back. Please come back to me, when you can. One more day; that would be enough_ (That's a lie, and she knows it, but it's what he needs to hear) \- and watches as her tears drip onto her words and make the ink run.

She gets no reply, and she's not entirely sure if it's because he can't or he won't. In the first ten years, he'd sometimes sent members of his crew to the surface with messages for her, himself being unable to enter the land of the living. But they are not bound to the  _ Dutchman _ like he is; perhaps they have moved on, choosing at last to face the Locker. Perhaps her words to him were swept away by Calypso, prevented from reaching him lest they interfere with his duties. Perhaps, perhaps, he wants to keep in touch, but cannot. She tries not to entertain the other possibility.

Henry grows into a fine young man; how could he not, his father being who he is? Gallant and determined - but reckless, so reckless, and she wonders if it’s the result of her selfishness. She never remarried; paid no heed to Will’s parting words - how could she? How could she, when her heart belongs to him, only him, and always will? But Henry has grown up without the guidance of a father, and she has always been too soft with him. In the years since Will left them, he’s begged her for every pirate story she knows (She leaves out those of Jack Sparrow. She will not think of him.), depleted his spending money buying books and pamphlets about the legends of the sea, taught himself all manner of foreign languages to read them; become obsessed with finding a way to free his father - and found one, or thought he did. 

She wakes one night to find him trudging to his bedroom, wet and bedraggled. She watches as he sits down on his bed and stares into space, clutching in his hands an astonishingly familiar necklace, and sits down beside him, taking him into her arms. No words are needed; she understands what he’s done, and will not reprimand him for it.

He joins the Navy at sixteen to ‘find the Trident, Mother!’ and is away for eight months of a year, sometimes more. The sea is dangerous and unkind, and she worries, but he always comes back. Perhaps Calypso does take pity on them, and will not take another from her.

She wonders often if she’s raised him right. Should a boy spend half his childhood searching for his father? Is she wrong to make no move to stop him? Sometimes she asks herself if it is because she thinks he may truly succeed, and can’t find an answer. 

She’s tried her best, she knows, to be enough for her son, to give him the best life she can, but she could not give him a father, and so he sets out into the world to find Will for himself. All she can do is exhort him to be careful, and patch him up when he returns.

The months when Henry is at sea are long and lonely. She employs her energies to keeping the lighthouse, guiding ships on their way to port (men back home to their families; husbands home to their wives, she likes to think, as hers will come back to her one day), and visiting with the townspeople, learning of their lives. Sometimes she offers to take the children off their hands for a few hours and attempts to teach the scraggly scalawags to read, with varying degrees of success. She tries her hand at writing romances like those she'd adored as a child, but every happy ending she creates is a painful reminder that they are but fantasies; there are no happy endings in real life, least of all hers. She puts down her pen with a sigh, burying her head in her hands.

Some days no amount of useful occupation can distract her, and she allows her mind to wander to places it should not. Sometimes she considers throwing herself off the cliffs - no, Will might save her, that’s no good, it’ll have to be rowing out into open water and then putting a pistol to her head, and then waiting for him to come to her and present the question, and she will say yes, yes, she does, and she will serve by his side and spend eternity with him. But then she snaps back to reality and reproaches herself. Would she orphan Henry, leave him alone with both parents lost to the sea? Neither Henry or Will would ever forgive her. It simply isn’t worth it; she cannot have her cake and eat it too. She can only spend the rest of her life waiting for Will to come to her.

Other times memories of beads in braided hair and kohl-rimmed eyes and rum-scented breath come back to her and she wonders, wonders what might have been, had she chosen differently; had she chosen body over heart, freedom over love. She's tried hard, so hard, to forget him, never speaking of him to her son, hiding away all the pamphlets that tell of the great adventures he'd had before she'd met him, but she cannot help herself. Might he have bound himself to her, never to have another woman? Might he have stayed by her side, never to leave? Part of her knows Captain Jack Sparrow would never, but another protests that she didn't think Captain Jack Sparrow would give up his chance at immortality to save a friend, either. Her mind reels with what-ifs and what-could-have-beens, and she swears it will drive her mad; sometimes she wishes she could cut her heart out like Davy Jones and bury it and never feel again. But then Henry returns from his nautical exploits and the lighthouse is filled once more with laughter and love, and she realises she wouldn't trade this - wouldn't trade her and Will's son - for anything in the world. And thoughts of Jack are pushed far away. At least, until Henry leaves again.

She wants to say the ten years go by slowly, but that isn’t quite right. Sometimes she feels as if Will’s next land-day will never come, and then she blinks and Henry is all of nineteen, a man grown, and towering over her. He must be as tall as Will, she thinks, or even taller.

Henry sets sail two months before the day, and as it creeps closer she fears he will not come back in time. But she worries for naught; Henry would never miss a chance to see his father, and his footsteps echo up the stairs of the lighthouse the very afternoon Will will return.

She throws her arms around him and pulls him down so she can kiss his cheek, and asks the same question she does every time he comes back. 

“Find the Trident?” 

She feels slightly guilty for encouraging him, but better for him to hope than descend into resignation and despair.

“Not yet. But soon,” he says, as he always does. 

“I thought you might not come back.”

“I had to, didn’t I? Father is coming.”

He regales her with tales of his voyage over tea, and when the shadows begin to lengthen and the sky turns orange, their eyes meet in unspoken agreement - the light in his is so  _ Will _ , and God knows she lives for these little glimpses of him in their son; Henry is so much like her that it's a pleasant surprise to see that he takes after his father as well - and they rise from their chairs, Henry offering his arm like the gentleman he is, and they make their way to the cliffs.

She remembers the last time - the first time - they did this; Henry was only about level with her chest, a boy with the slight roundness of face left over from babyhood. It's long since disappeared, leaving behind an exquisitely defined jaw. His face is hers, as are its features, but the polished handsomeness behind it all can only be Will. She can’t wait for Will to see the extraordinary man their son has become.

Henry grins down at her; he’d gone and dug out that old tricorne he’d worn as a child - his ‘pirate’s hat’, he’d called it - and jammed it onto his head lopsidedly. She exhales, pursing her lips amusedly, and reaches up to straighten it. His smile widens, and he loops an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to him.

They watch the sun sink lower and lower in the sky and finally disappear into the sea.

They wait for the telltale flash of green.

It does not come. 

She can feel her heart sinking in her chest; Henry makes a noise of confusion and steps away from her, toward the sea.

“Father’s late.”

She wants to believe him, she truly does. “Henry-”

“No matter, we have time. He must be busy. The seas have been rough these weeks.”

So they watch, and wait, Henry pacing the grass impatiently. She can see him growing more and more agitated as the sky grows darker and tries to think of words that might comfort him. She finds none.

Night settles in and the stars fade into existence, and she decides that they must stop fooling themselves. They can wait and wait until dawn; nothing will change. She is numb for a moment. Did she expect this, then? Did she know deep down, that when he left her last, he would not come back? And still allowed herself, allowed Henry, to nurse a false hope that he just might? A wave of immoderate anger and grief floods over her.

“He’s not coming, Henry.”

“He’s late, Mother, have you no patience? We’ve waited ten years, surely we can wait a little longer.”

“Henry, no. You know it’s only at sunset that-”

He whips around to face her, his face contorted in sudden fury. “DAMN YOU! Damn you, Mother, do you have such little faith in him? He loves you, and me, and he  _ will _ come back tonight! Are you so quick to believe you have waited ten years for nothing?”

She can only stare back at him helplessly, her eyes threatening to overflow with tears. He’s never used such language to her, not even in his most rebellious phases. She knows he doesn’t mean it, but it is nonetheless a shock.

He takes one look at her face and crumples. 

“Damn you, you’re right,” he says quietly. His lip quivers, and he turns away from her, sniffing. He strides towards the edge of the same cliff he dived off ten years prior and she picks up her skirts and follows him quickly - Will isn’t here to save him this time, and she’s  _ not _ going to let him kill himself.

To her relief, he stops and drops to his knees, emitting a sound somewhere between a groan and a scream, his hands closing into fists on the grass below him. He makes the sound again, and it goes through her like a dagger, twisting at her heart. She stops behind him, wanting to offer reassurance but unsure of how or if it will be welcome.

He raises a fist, bringing up a clump of grass with it, and waves it in the direction of the sea.

“Damn you. DAMN YOU! You BASTARD! FILTH! SCUM! SCOUNDREL! CUR!"

Having exhausted his limited inventory of insults, he stops, shoulders heaving. He draws a deep, shuddering breath.

"You - you" - he struggles to find words to express his rage - "you  _ PIRATE _ !" He rips the tricorne off his head and flings it into the sea below, breathing raggedly. 

“How could you?” he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “How could you do this?”

He bows his head and sobs, tears running down his chin and into his shirt. 

She bends down and lays a hand on his shoulder gingerly, as if he might explode. Thankfully, he leans into her touch, and she lowers herself onto the grass and fits her arms around him, turning him gently and easing his face into the crook of her neck as if he is a child once more.

A muffled “I’m sorry” comes from somewhere near her shoulder, and she presses Henry closer to her, rocking him like a baby. 

“No, sweetheart. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

She doesn’t bother hiding her tears this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *MILD SPOILERS FOR BBC SHERLOCK S4E1*
> 
> I tried really hard to channel John's grieved reaction in my writing of Henry, and will be immensely pleased if you think I have succeeded. Poor Henry, I feel bad for doing it to him, but I thought it was rather unrealistic that we never see his anger (or rather, if we did, it wasn't strong enough) at Will for being absent.


	3. Twenty-two years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All's well that ends well, but not without trials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really worried (am still kind of worried) about this chapter, especially because I inserted some OCs for Plothole Filling and am not sure if people like OCs in fanfic. if you don't, I do hope you'll read it nonetheless; they don't take up very much space in the story.
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated - a million thanks to those who have already left them!

She drifts around listlessly, touching the walls and wooden beams of the lighthouse she’s lived in for fifteen years. She’d thought of packing up things, but what purpose would that serve? Kitty will still need a place to stay; she isn’t going to turn her maid out. What for? She won’t need her any longer, but neither does she need the house, and dear Kitty is welcome to it, and all her things. Dear Kitty and little Eliza - she smiles at the thought of another mother and child keeping the lighthouse after her and Henry. The note has been written - better to tell the truth, she thinks, or as much of it as she can, than to fabricate a story that she has gone to England. Kitty will grieve, of course she will. She bites her lip - poor Kitty, first Henry, now her - and reconsiders briefly, but sets her jaw. Kitty will go on; she has so much to live for. Elizabeth? Elizabeth has nothing.

And everything to die for.

Henry is dead, executed for treason - on land! On land - and her lip quivers, the tears threatening to fall again. She wrote back at once, imploring the governor of St. Martin to have him buried at sea, but she knows it was too late, far too late, and it would have done no good. Only those who die at sea, who take their last breaths among the waves or on a wooden deck, are bound for the Locker. Only those who die at sea have passage on the  _ Dutchman. Why him?  _ she demands of Calypso. Fifty-three men on that ship, and the only one that survived had to be Henry. She wonders what he might have done to be accused of treason - he would never betray his fellows in the Navy.

Unless, she thinks, it was for a pirate. A certain pirate named Jack Sparrow who Henry believed would help him find the Trident.

This is all her fault, she knows. It’s entirely, completely her fault. Will had told him never to try to find him, never to try to break his curse. He is absolved of all responsibility. But she? She’d never made a move to stop Henry, to discourage him from going to sea on his quest. It’s wholly her fault, and she trembles at the thought of what her husband will say.

What he will say, when she tells him. For she  _ will  _ tell him. He will not know, for his reach does not go beyond the coast, and he has a right to know his only child is dead, gone forever to a place he can never enter. And she is free at last - she has loved Henry with all her heart, but she will not deny it was he who stood between her and the sea. She is free, free to row out of the bay with her pistol, towards the only thing she has left. To give herself to the depths and join her husband at last. She does not fear death, but she will serve on the  _ Dutchman _ , for eternity, if she can. It is all she can do now. There is nothing left for her here, nothing left in the world of the living.

So she will not live.

_ Don’t mourn me, Kitty,  _ she’s written.  _ I’m going to see Will again. _

And, perplexingly, it is true. She  _ will  _ see him again, just not in the way that others will imagine. She’s lived here as the widow of Will Turner, blacksmith turned pirate, killed at sea, for no one would have believed her had she told the truth. Not even Kitty, sweet Kitty, who’d do anything for her after she’d taken her in, her heart aching for both the terrified girl and the child in her womb, not fatherless, but worse - a bastard, the result of maidenhood forcibly taken. She feels a stab of guilt - how can she leave them? - but pushes it away. They are not alone - Kitty has the sister she's taken the babe into town to visit, and she will have all the money and possessions that will be left behind. They will be provided for. 

Kitty said that Henry had gone to be with the Lord. Elizabeth will not. To take one's own life is a terrible sin, unforgivable. She's loath to have Kitty believing she is burning in the fiery depths of Hell, but there is nothing she can do about it. As for little Eliza - her namesake will have no memory of her, but her mother will ensure that she knows who she was named for, and why. She prays briefly to Calypso, the only God she knows.  _ Let her be safe, let her be happy. Let her mother's love be enough for her, let her be satisfied as Henry never was. _

She finds herself in Henry's room. The walls are nearly bare - Henry’d stripped off the many posters and drawings and papers that had adorned them and brought them with him when he went to sea. She sits on the bed; it hasn’t been slept in for months. She picks up the pillow and buries her nose in it, searching for any last hint that her son once lived. It smells musty and unused - what had she expected? But she weeps anyway, clutching it to her bosom. He is gone, gone, and she must go to Will with the news that both his wife and son are dead.

She finally lays it back on the bed, plumping it with a practised hand. This room may belong to Eliza when she is older. She gives a watery chuckle at the thought of Henry’s pirate lair being transformed into a little girl’s nursery. Henry needs it no longer; she’s sure he won’t mind.

The lad hadn’t even had the chance to meet her; he’d set sail just weeks before her birth. 

She rises and goes to her room, picking up the pistol from her dresser and checking the priming and flintlock yet again. She needs to be sure it will work - sure, starvation and exposure will leave her as dead as will a bullet through her brain, but she wants it to be over as quickly and painlessly as possible.

She taps her coat pockets - spare ammunition, just in case - then turns to the iron chest on her bedside table. It is the only other thing she will bring with her; everything else, she will leave behind. She picks it up and reaches for the pistol, then stops.

She has always felt the reassuring rhythm of her husband’s heart when she laid her hands on the chest, the vibrations echoing through the metal. She has laid her head against it many a time, soothed to sleep by its steady beating.

She knows the chest as if it is her own heart that it holds, and not once has she known it to stop beating. 

She sets it down, her heart, as if recognising that something is amiss with its twin, thumping loudly and erratically in her chest. She puts her ear to it.

Silence.

She rushes for her dresser drawer, where the key is kept. What in hell? She’s kept it safe, all these years, from all those who might wish to stab it and end Will’s life. For it to stop so suddenly - what could it mean? Is Will - no, she can’t think it, for that might make it true. For her to be left completely alone… Her hands shake as she rummages in the drawer for the key, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

She stops. Rapid footsteps on the stairs, very nearly to the top - she hadn’t noticed it earlier in her panic. Kitty, come back early from Port Royal? That would wreck her plans, but she can work around it. She pushes the pistol into the drawer, slamming it shut.

The footsteps come closer, and she realises with a shock that there are  _ two pairs.  _ Eliza’s not old enough to walk, let alone run. Burglars? Officers from the Navy, come to formally deliver the news of Henry’s execution? She opens the drawer again and shoves the pistol into her belt, then places the chest under her bed.

She strides toward the landing, hand on the gun, just in case.

The two strangers round the corner and come into view at last.

Not strangers. One stranger. The other - 

“Mother!” Henry’s smile is exuberant, ecstatic, and she’s sure her face must mirror his as he crushes her in a tight embrace.

“Hen… Henry,” she breathes, bewildered but delighted, and squeezes her arms around him.

“Mother, I-” he starts when she releases him.

“I thought you were dead!”

“Oh, Mother, I’m so sorry. I’m not! I’m a fugitive of the law now, but that’s not important.”

“Not important!” The absolute nerve of him! She can’t help but smile nonetheless - he is truly his father’s son. His father’s son, and  _ alive. _

“Mother, listen. You can have a go at me later if you like, but hear me out.”

And so he inhales deeply and begins to prattle on at breakneck speed, gesturing excitedly. She can barely keep up with him, only picking out several familiar words.  _ Trident… Jack… Barbossa… curse… broken… Father… free. _

“He’ll be here any moment, I know it. Carina and I” - she glances at the dark-haired young woman behind her son for the first time- “are going ahead to wait for him! Come quickly!”

And then he is off again, dragging the girl behind him - she flashes Elizabeth a nervous, apologetic smile - and disappearing.

She is left staring after them, utterly bemused.

Then it sinks in, and she finds herself gripping the bannister of the staircase as if it is the only thing holding her up - and she suspects that it is, too. 

Can it be? After all these years? Surely it isn’t true!

And yet-

She runs for her room, yanking open the drawer and sorting urgently through it, turning up the double-pronged key at last.

She squats and pulls out the chest from under the bed. She fits the key in the lock and turns, then stops, staring at it in trepidation.

She’s never opened the chest, never needed to - the sound and feel of the beating through its walls was always enough for her. But that is gone now, and she must know.

She throws back the lid and suppresses the urge to look away

It is empty.

She sits down hard, eyes round.

What else can it mean?

She gets up and rushes for the stairs, grabbing her coat, then stops herself, a sudden thought occurring to her.

That she will rush into his arms joyously does not mean that he will do the same. 

She hadn’t considered this at all earlier; she’d expected him to be angry, yes, furious, even, but she hadn’t doubted that she would be welcome. 

She tries to dismiss it, no, how could she not be? All those things he’d said, years ago…

But that’s just it, isn’t it? It was years ago. Much and more can happen in twelve years, and he’d left her last not with words of love but of harshness and grief, and firm instructions, none of which she’d followed. 

She hadn’t been the only one - Henry had refused to listen to his father and disobeyed his every command, but she, his mother, had done nothing to stop him. She’s allowed him to risk his life, to run afoul of the law, to sail with the likes of Jack Sparrow  _ and  _ Hector Barbossa, no less, and it is only Calypso’s grace and mercy that has brought him back to her.

She finds herself rushing back into the room and stripping off her shirt and breeches, searching through her closet for her pink dress - the best one she has, although that’s not saying much, considering she has a grand total of three, but it’ll have to do - and heaving out the petticoats she never wears. She has no way of knowing if he’ll still have her, but she’ll be damned if she won’t try to charm him back into her arms.

She tries to be as fast as she can, but her fingers fumble with the laces of the bodice, and she swears copiously. Curse women’s clothes and their cursed fastenings!

“Kitty!” she calls, then remembers.

Her mind is wailing for her to be sensible and leave it be, but her body pays no heed and snatches up her coat and then her jewellery box, and flies down the steps and out of the lighthouse. She glances at the figures in the distance that must be Henry and Carina - no sign of Will just yet - then runs for Port Royal, clutching her coat around her.

“Mrs Turner! What-” Kitty begins when she opens the door to a breathless, half-dressed Elizabeth.

“Kitty, the best of news! Henry has come back - he’s alive! - and my husband is coming home!”

Kitty’s face brightens, then falls. “Mrs Turner,” she says gently, “your husband died at sea long ago. Come in and sit down, what have you done to yourself?” 

She thinks Elizabeth’s gone mad! Elizabeth fights down a hysterical urge to laugh - she might as well have. She feels positively dizzy with nervous excitement.

“I thought he was, Kitty, but Henry’s come back and he’s found his father! I promise it’s the truth! Please,” she gestures to her dress, “will you help me? The laces, I can’t-”

Kitty nods, beaming. “Why, of course, Mrs Turner! Great news, this is - we must celebrate!”

Mrs Morgan, Kitty’s sister, welcomes her generously into her house and fusses over her, and between the two women, she is dressed in no time at all. Kitty holds up a looking-glass as Mrs Morgan bedecks her with the finest jewellery from the box and pins up her hair, and she smiles tremulously at her reflection.

“Kitty - do you think he’ll still want me?”

Kitty gapes at her for a second, bouncing Eliza on her hip. “Why, of course he does! You must be the bonniest woman in all of the Caribbean, if I may say so, ma’am.”

She blushes. “Kitty, there’s no need to-”

“She’s right, Mrs Turner,” Kitty’s sister puts in. “Mr Turner is a lucky man.” Mrs Morgan pats her shoulders and straightens her necklace. “There we are. Go see your man.”

She thanks them again and again and rushes for the door. 

The dress is tiresome to run in, but she can’t bring herself to care. She hitches up her skirts and rushes quickly through the streets and towards the cliffs. She slows as she crests a hill - this must be the most exercise she’s done in years - and stops.

Two men stand on the grass below her, their backs to the sea. Henry, in his red coat… and - oh, Christ - Will. She can’t believe her eyes. It’s true, then, it’s true. It is seven years and ten months to the next decade, yet here he stands, on land. Free.

Her heart skips a beat - this is it, the moment she’s waited twelve years for - and she watches, fearing what he will do. 

She sees him turn briefly to Henry and start forward. Tears start to well in her eyes - God Almighty, he still wants to see her - and she is running, soaring, flying towards him as he sprints toward her, and then stopping, afraid. It’s been an age since she last saw his face, and she cannot read it like she used to. What if-

Then he stretches out his arms to her, and she throws hers around his neck with a laugh. She presses herself to him, sighing in bliss and relief. He is home, home at last, and she loses herself in the warmth of his body against hers and the salty smell of his hair. He lets out a deep, shuddering breath himself, slumping against her shoulder, and she knows now that she had nothing to fear. They are the same. Yes, each of them irrevocably changed in the long years apart, but that which lies between them unchanged, unbroken, as sure and solid as the dry ground beneath them. They don’t move for a long moment, holding each other and simply breathing.

They draw back in unison, beholding each other in awe. She looks into his eyes, giddy with joy, watching as his gaze drops in that oh-so-familiar way, and allows hers to do the same, then presses her lips to his, cupping her hand to the back of his head. 

He responds with youthful eagerness, putting his arms around her again and drawing her closer. His lips are as soft and sweet as she remembered, and it is as if they are twenty and newly declared to each other again, the children that they once were.

When they part, gasping for breath, she laces her fingers through his hair and smiles. “Will-”

“Elizabeth,” he whispers, looking at her as if she is the most priceless of treasure. 

She raises a hand and touches his face carefully, tenderly. He takes it in his own roughened hand and presses his lips to the base of her thumb, then guides it down, pressing it to his chest.

She feels the steady, familiar  _ lub-dub, lub-dub _ against her palm, the same rhythm her own heart has beat to all these years. But now it echoes not through cold metal, but in Will’s warm, human,  _ mortal _ body, where it belongs.

They have twenty-two years to make up for, but she’s sure they’ll manage.

He’s home. It is enough.


End file.
